Tuesday, September 02, 2008


Throughout my pregnancy, everyone warned me that once we had the baby, our whole lives would revolve around poop. I've found this to be untrue. Since we're a family who spends an inordinate amount of time discussing our own bodily functions as well as those of our dog, the arrival of Alice has only marginally increased our extremely high and graphic level of poop talk.

What no one ever mentioned was how much attention I'd be paying to my boobs. 

All day, every day, I'm dealing with my boobs. 

So here's the admission of a lifelong flat chested girl: I now have a great rack.  That's right--my boobs look fantastic.  As Spiceboy (very happily) pointed out, I have cleavage!

And that, my friends, is where the irony of the situation comes into play. Because for as great as the boobs look, that's where the fun ends.

Having a baby slows time down and immerses you in the minutia of a situation. I now spend vast amounts of time doing very small things. I spent at least eight hours on Saturday staring at my right boob and willing it to work properly. That's the equivalent of an entire work day--spent staring at my boob. 

Too much milk. Not enough milk. Hot compresses. Cold compresses. Cabbage leaves. Nursing bras. Breast cream. 

Boobs, boobs, boobs. It's a fun word to type, no?

And now I must run. Alice is alseep in her crib, which means that my boobs and I have time to grab a short nap before the craziness begins all over again.

Happy Tuesday!